Ten Important Conversations
by daysandweeks
Summary: Ten important conversations Felicity Worthington had with Simon Middleton. Contains spoilers for TSFT.
1. In Passing

**I'm still not over what went down in TSFT. I finished it less than an hour ago, in fact. So here's one of the stories I promised, to be roughly ten chapters and taking place in no apparent order, although this may be changed once it's over. This will contain spoilers. Loads of them. In fact, this chapter contains spoilers, although they're not huge in the least. Points of view shall vary. Enjoy, please! Read and review as well!**

Ten Important Conversations Felicity Worthington Had With Simon Middleton

_Late May, 1896_

"Congratulations," she says in passing, though she really doesn't mean it.

"What?" I ask, although I know perfectly well what Felicity is speaking of.

She smiles politely at me, and decides to step in front of me and face my properly. "I hear that you're betrothed to Miss Fairchild." She glances at Lucy, who sits at a nearby table, talking. "My congratulations are in order."

There's a smug smile on her face. Somehow, in my becoming betrothed, I've still managed to lose. I won't have it, and so I mirror her grin. "I hear things aren't so well with Mr. Markham," I comment, knowing that the shot it a weak one. I immediately regret saying it.

Felicity scoffs lightly. "Oh, things are going on fantastically well. Wherever did you hear that?"

I shrug. "In passing."

"You shouldn't listen to gossip," she says, shaking her head. "I just had the most pleasant conversation with Horace the other day, in fact." She clears her throat before saying, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "We've both agreed that we're not in the least inclined to marry one another, and so that is that."

I let out a loud laugh that draws the attention of everyone nearby, from cautious mothers to gossipy girls who have only just become women. "Is that so?" I ask upon regaining my composure.

"It is," Felicity says, her voice taunting. She leans in towards me, ever so slightly. "He's not interested in me, and I…I'm not interested in men."

I roll my eyes at her melodramatic words and actions. "You're never going to change, are you?"

Felicity shrugs and backs off slightly. I can practically hear a relieved sigh from somewhere behind me, off where my mother sits. It's Felicity's party all over again, this time not with Gemma. I'm still not sure what came over me then…

"I've already changed. Haven't you noticed?"

Felicity's words draw me back to the present. I inspect her thoroughly, although I don't note a single change in her appearance, actions, or words.

"Not really," I say. "Not at all."

She smiles lightly before turning away. "I feel that I must tell you goodbye, Simon," she says, her voice taking on a huskier tone. "You see, I'm moving to Paris."

I don't know if I believe her. "And what pray tell, will you do there?"

She doesn't turn back to me but calls behind her, "Become a model for artists. Never marry." Daringly, she shoots me one final glance. "Wear trousers."

And with that she's off, and I turn away from her, shaking my head. If she means to disarm me, she hasn't done it. When I look up, it's to see Lucy's eyes on me, and I force a smile onto my face. It's all that I can do. She's a nice girl. Pretty, charming, quite untroubled and easy to handle. I gave her that silly little box that Gemma so loved and wonder why, because all she'll ever keep in it is her favorite necklace or a love letter sent from me, as she'll never have any real secrets.

I approach her and she greets me with a little bit of gossip. "I hear that Miss Worthington is visiting Paris with her mother and dear cousin shortly," she says, measuring her words carefully. Her eyes linger past me for a second, and I assume that she's staring at Felicity, but don't turn to see if I'm correct.

"I don't know," I lie, sitting down at the table as well. "Where did you hear that?"

Lucy shrugs, and her confidence visibly swells by my ignorant response, yet somehow shrinks at the same time due to my interest. "In passing," she says, and I feel a laugh unwillingly force its way up my throat as I realize what Felicity has just told me.

_I'm not interested in men._


	2. A Waste

**Thanks for reading and reviewing so far, everyone who has! Pay close attention to the dates. I might change the order of this once I'm finished, but for now it's going to be out of order. This chapter contains no spoilers for TSFT, unless Felicity's exact age counts as a spoiler (being as it was confirmed in TSFT, although it might have been before), but I doubt that it does. Again, please read, enjoy, and review!**

_December, 1893_

"Don't you just love Christmas time?" I ask Simon, and once it's out of my mouth I feel incredibly ridiculous. Why exactly am I trying to act so carefree?

"It's nice," he says, leaning on the balcony rail, a lit cigarette held between his fingers, which dangle over the edge. It's a disgusting habit, so I take the cigarette from him, only to place it between my lips and inhale.

He sends me a sideways glance, rolls his eyes. "Have you missed me, being away at school?"

I'm about to let out a scoff and say no, but for once, I think I'll tell him what he wants to hear. I'm in possession of his cigarette, after all. He snatches it back as soon as I'm about to take another drag, though, and so I only tell him half of what he wants. "I've been having such a lovely time with Pippa, I hadn't though much about you, honestly." I leave room for dramatic effect, watching him from beneath lowered lashes. He doesn't look disappointed, but I've known him long enough to know that he is. "But now that I'm here, I believe that I have."

He turns around so that his back is against the rail now. He steals a glance inside. Conversation wafts from somewhere behind the barely opened doors. It's quite warm out for a December night, and so the house is being given air. I can tell that no one is directly inside when he leans in and kisses me.

The kiss is not a conversation, but it should count as one. I'm so surprised by his action that my hear rate accelerates without warning and I push him away, letting out a gasp. It's our first real kiss, sans the silly ones of our childhood when the adults could have cared less whether we were at dinner parties or not. We're no longer silly children of eight and ten, yet at fifteen and seventeen, it seems that still no one cares. That should be changing very shortly, especially if Simon's kissing me behind only partially closed doors.

There's a smug look on Simon's face. I don't expect him to say sorry. He's always been a greedy little boy, and he apparently tastes of cigarettes, although I currently do as well.

I snatch the cigarette back but there's a voice from inside. Simon grabs it from me, smashes the end against the balcony rail, and tosses it below us. I'm about to scold him for vandalizing my family's property, but I'm distracted by a woman's voice from the doorway. We both stand up straight and turn around to see my mother.

"Ah. There's where you've gotten to," she says, and I suppose that we both expect her to say more, but she's gone, and that is that.

Simon chuckles. "A waste of a cigarette."

I shrug before walking away from him and saying, "And perhaps a waste of a kiss."


	3. Never Ending Cycle

**Thanks for the lovely reviews, everyone! If you haven't read TSFT, again, there aren't really any spoilers in this chapter. I can sort of see a hint of one, but it's nothing that would ruin anything at all. Thanks for reading this far, and please read, enjoy, and review!**

_March, 1895_

"At least tell me why," I say with a sigh, staring at Felicity's back as she stares across the park. It's cold out and her shawl is wrapped snugly across her shoulders, yet still there is that hint of something attractive and supple beneath. She moves her arms this way and that as she ignores me completely and waves ardently at a beautiful girl on horseback who laughs with the other girls near her. The girl notices Felicity and waves back and in the look that she throws her, I know that this girl must be Pippa.

Annoyed at being displaced, I roll my eyes and make my way closer to Felicity. "Just tell me why. That's all I ask," I say from over her shoulder. She puts her arm down, but from this angle I can still see the loving smile on her face as Pippa rides off. The girls she races with all have a competitive look in their eyes, but she just seems happy to be there.

"Why?" Felicity asks, never taking her eyes off of the race. "Why must I tell you? Can't you take no for an answer?" I think that she wants me to respond, but she continues speaking. "Not every girl you come across is going to want you, you know."

I glare at her shoulder, at the girl who has just won the race. In a minute she's going to come over here to talk to Felicity, and I just can't handle that right now. I need an explanation and I need one now. "I don't care about every girl I come across," I say rather harshly, stepping away from behind her and standing directly in front of her so that her view of that beloved friend of hers is obscured. "I don't care what _their_ explanations are. I just want yours."

Felicity's smile falters for a bit, and when it returns it is not as it usually is. Her passion is missing. There is no twinkle in her eye, no smirk playing across her lips, just a silly little smile. "I have no explanation," she finally says. The smile is not evident in her voice, and now I know for sure that it's a false one. "I just…"

She trails off and I'm left hanging on a thread. She's not dangling me on purpose like she normally does. Her eyes don't wander to Pippa, who is surely approaching. Her eyes meet mine, and there's something sad in them. Something I can't quite capture and don't know if I want to.

"Look, Simon," she finally spits, shaking her had and turning to look beyond me. "If you didn't want your intentions shot down on Easter Sunday, then you shouldn't have brought them up." She steps to the side and in a moment her beautiful friend is in her arms, laughing merrily.

"I've never been good with horses," Pippa says with a light laugh in her voice, not even acknowledging me. She's lost in her own little world with Felicity. "Oh, but it was so much fun!"

I wander away, off to find my family, or someone, anyone who isn't Felicity. It's not that she's broken my heart; she's just left me rather annoyed. Have I ever been spurned before? I think back, and am really not sure. It would seem that only Felicity has ever spurned me, and multiple times, at that.

But I've turned her down numerous times, as well, and I'll do it again and again and again, just as she shall do to me. It will be a never-ending cycle. It's always been this way. Normally I'd smile and laugh at this. I _like_ our relationship—the constant pushing and pulling, saying never while meaning always and yes while meaning no.

I don't mean to, but I send Felicity a backwards, wistful glance. I'm not sure if I'm surprised to see that she has been looking at me for quite some time now by the way her eyes are fixated. Suddenly, I understand that sad look on her face, and that feeling in the pit of my stomach. I'm just not happy with this never-ending cycle anymore, and it would seem that neither is she.


	4. Two Conversations

**When I first finished writing this, I felt so bad! It just didn't feel like it fit into the time I wrote it, and I didn't think either of them (even if you don't like Simon) would really do this considering Gemma. But now that I've thought about it, it makes sense to me, and if you'd like an explanation as to why if you're left feeling, "HUH?!" read through. I'll tell you at the end! No spoilers until the author's note at the bottom, I promise!**

_December, 1895_

"Since when was your room…so…high up?"

I turn around to see a panting Simon Middleton who has quite apparently climbed into my bedroom as if he were a fifteen-year-old boy who decided he was extremely bored one summer night and made a journey across town and up a garden wall.

I hide my surprise with disinterest. "It's just as high as it always was," I say in a rather harsh tone. "You'd think it would seem shorter to you now that you've grown taller." With that I twirl around once more to face my vanity table. I pick up my brush, planning to run it through my hair at least twenty more times.

"Not even going to great me, are you?" he says from somewhere behind me, and I don't want him to think I want to turn around, but I follow my heart and do anyway. It's a good thing that I do, for he's fooling around with my things—a porcelain doll, a photograph of Pippa and I that I treasure so much, a small bank that's been empty for years, a fragile box in which I keep my secret letters.

"Put that down," I say, and he does.

For a while he just stands there and I just sit there, brush in hand. Eventually I ask him, "Why'd you come here, anyway?"

Simon shrugs, turns around. "Maybe I just wanted to see you," he says. "Maybe I was wondering how you were doing."

I roll my eyes and give up on brushing my hair. Casting the brush aside, I stand up and walk over to him. It's only now that I realize I'm in my nightgown. He's probably stolen a glance at my breasts which are just visible, depending on the lighting, beneath the thin cotton. I hardly care, though.

"I doubt that's why you're here," I finally say.

Simon turns around and I'm surprised to see that I stepped so close to him. He's only inches away from me. "You're right," he concedes. "I came to tell you some interesting news."

Suddenly I know what he's up to. He's going to try to get to me! Oh, but it won't work. I'm a step ahead of him. Feigning boredom, I steal a glance at my perfectly manicured nails. "I know already. Miss Gemma Doyle, and her family, dined at your home tonight."

From underneath my lashes, I look up at him, hoping he doesn't notice the direction of my eyes. The glance isn't supposed to be seductive. It's supposed to be secret. Even from this position, I can see him shrugging. "It's certainly news that _I_ find interesting, but I wasn't so sure you'd find it so. That's not what I had to say."

Drat, he's won this time, it seems. "What is it then?" I curse myself for the tone of interest in my voice. It seems that he's scored yet another point now.

He sits down on my bed and I want to punch him for it. I look up from my nails to glare at him and his smug little grin. "Nothing," he says to himself, the grin growing wider, and that's when I've had it.

I storm over to him, shaking my finger in surprised face. "You'll leave her alone!" I shout, and realize my mistake. Someone down the hall is going to hear me yelling and at least question me about who I was talking to, if not throw open the door. But no, I'm not at Spence. Would anyone here really care?

"I don't have to do what you say, Felicity," Simon says, an annoyed look on his face. "And for the record, I was only going to say that I'm quite taken by her. There's no harm in that, is there?"

"There's always harm when it comes to you," I growl, but it's not true and he knows it. "And get off my bed. You do have to listen to me in this case, because I live here."

Simon rolls his eyes and stands up. I follow him to the window, nearly push him out. He glances down the side of the house and I realize that it is quite a distance. "What a waste of a climb," he sighs.

"Just tell me you won't go climbing up the side of Gemma's house, hmm?"

Simon looks at me as if I'm crazy. "I wouldn't!" he says with a laugh. "I haven't exactly known her as long as I've known you, and she's not half as insane as you are. I'm sure she'd react quite differently than you do."

"And don't go climbing up the side of my house again, either," I say as soon as he's done speaking.

The glance Simon tosses me is just short of apathetic. "I don't know if I'd want to," he responds.

I'm suddenly feeling hurt, and I don't know why. "Wait," I command. "Don't go just yet."

"I don't have to do what you say, Felicity," Simon says, yet again.

"I know that," I growl. Lightening my voice, I say, "I'm not sorry for treating you poorly—any girl who is 'half insane' would react this way after having you suddenly appear in her bedroom." When I invoke his words, a slight blush appears on his cheeks, and I can't help but think, _Ahh, much better. I'm in control now._

But I'm not. "The climb need not have been a waste, you know," he says in an off-hand manner, and I know what he means and lean in and kiss him, if only to make him act less apathetic and dull.

His response is nothing near apathetic. In a moment we're in a more comfortable position, sitting on the bed, and what proceeds feels like an eternity but also goes by so very quickly. Before I know it my sheer nightgown is cast aside, there are clothes not belonging to me strewn across the floor, and although it's all rather rushed and angry and confused, when it's over and we lie there there's something very homey about the scene.

"Why did you refuse me?" he asks my hair.

I don't respond immediately and he rests on his elbow, gazing down at me. I shuffle underneath the blankets, suddenly cold, and when my foot grazes his leg it all feels _too_ convenient, _too_ right, _too_ normal.

I meet his gaze, and sadly tell him the truth. "I love this." I gesture between us. "Even when I act as if I don't." There's a short pause, and when I finally speak, it isn't to him. I don't have the courage to do so. It's to the window, the picture of Pippa and me, everything in the room but him and his clothes and his smell and most of all his eyes. "I just couldn't have this everyday," I admit. "It isn't…me"

I can hear him smile with a small sigh as he lies back down. "But it could be," he says, and it's very true.

I hate myself for it, not him. I hate myself for not being able to have anything normal and just slightly good. It must all be oddities and pain for me. "It could be," I admit, and the tears start to come. He handles it very well, rolling over and wiping them away with his bare hands. I tell myself he shall never do this again and he must know that he shall never do it either in the same moment. My tears are more revealing and virtuous than my state of chastity will ever be. "It could be, but I won't have it that way."

And we ride out the next few hours, not saying a word, until he gets up quite silently, dresses, and leaves with what might be a gossamer kiss, but could just as well be a single word to my ear.

"Goodbye."

**Thanks for reading! Anyway, I think it fits because Simon's sort of giving an offering to Fee, like he does to Gemma in TSFT. (Spoilers now.) When he's possible pursuing Lucy, Simon still has that moment where he flirts with Gemma, denies his interest in Lucy, and is glad to hear of her "lack of interest" in anyone. When it seems that nothing else is going to happen and he's got something promising with Lucy (and Gemma totally does some crazy shit with her magic) Simon's out of the picture. So I thought he might do something similar with Fee…in a totally different set, because she's Fee. Anyway, thanks for reading this far, and if you have, it couldn't hurt to review, eh?**

**Love,**

**Kate**


	5. Half a Conversation

_December, 1896_

She steps down the staircase gracefully, and it's the moonbeams shooting through the window and landing gracefully on her neck that make the picture complete. She knows this, relishes it, puts her small hand to her collarbone as if shocked to see me standing there.

Apparently, she is shocked. "Simon Middleton?" he asks me with a small gasp. "What…what are _you_ doing here?"

Her voice isn't disdainful, just utterly surprised. "I'm terribly sorry I was invited, Felicity," I say, sarcastically, once she's reached the bottom of the staircase, offering her my arm. She takes it, seemingly without a second thought.

I want to ask her if she's even going to say hello, if she's lost her manners in Paris. But I can't bring myself to. I tell myself that it's just the fact that it's just after Christmas and I don't want to ruin the spirit, but a passionate argument with Felicity about manners or lack thereof has never ruined any spirit. It's been months since I last saw her, though, and that's the real reason why I'm not about to open my mouth.

"How was Paris?" The words are out of my mouth before I even plan to say them.

"Just lovely," Felicity says with a smile, to herself more than to me. "I didn't want to come back here. I'll be departing again in spring."

I hate my stomach for reacting the way it does, with an upset flop. "So soon?" I ask, mildly. Good God, what has happened? Since when did we ever have _mild_ conversation?

"Well, yes," Felicity says, and I want to pull her behind the nearest floral design, kiss that ridiculously polite smile off of her lips, not just for my own sake but to really find out if she's "not interested in men." I'm just about to when she brings up the only thing that could really stop me. "How is Miss…well, your wife? I heard the wedding was simply lovely."

We've nearly reached our destination, now, and I curse Felicity for bringing up Lucy, for the dreadful scattering of potted plants. The next one is too far away and too close to everyone else to even consider kissing her behind it. So instead, I deliberately ignore her question and stop walking, unlatching my arm from hers and turning to face her in one swift movement. "Why are you being so damned _polite_?" I ask, and my voice is nearly a whisper, because she has to listen if she wants to hear me. She's not going to get away with nodding and smiling. She's not going to become that uninteresting and uninterested when it comes to me.

Felicity blinks before responding, "That's what one does among company, Simon. You're _supposed_ to act polite."

"And since when was I company?"

She lets out a low sigh and looks around us. "You've always been company," she mumbles under her breath. "Everyone's company."

"And since when were we polite around one another?"

Felicity glares up at me, her eyes defiant. "Since today! Is that alright?" I'm about to answer her with a firm no when she says, "It doesn't matter if _you_ think it's alright. It's not going to be the same anymore. I'll have none of your flirting, none of _mine_, for that matter—."

"What did they do to you in Paris?" I groan, thrusting my face into my palms.

"I haven't changed in the least since you last saw me," Felicity clarifies. "I'm done changing. But I know where I belong, and this endless banter is not part of that." Through the cracks between my fingers I see her gesture between the two of us before standing up straight. She clears her throat and says in a voice just short of polite yet somehow patronizing, "As I was asking, how is Lucy?"

I shake my head, dropping my arms and rolling my eyes. "You're impossible," I say. "When we're getting along, we get along horribly, and when we _actually_ get along…it's this tedious tiresomeness."

"I take it she's not doing that well then," Felicity says, her tone resembling that of someone speaking in a normal conversation. It's very frustrating. "Newlyweds don't often speak like that."

I give up. There is no way I can walk with this once (and according to her, still) zealous girl who is being so placid with me for a whole other yard. "I take it you can see to yourself from here," I say, offering Felicity a condescending smile. "Goodbye, Miss Worthington."

I walk away and don't look back, and I never look back again. I always remember, though, the words she called behind me, sounding so confident and sure but, as I was listening closely, the tiniest of wavers. "Goodbye, Mr. Middleton."

**Felicity **_**hasn't**_** changed. She's just acting this way, because, well, it's over. (Not this fic, just their weird little relationship.) Thanks for reading, and please proceed to review!**


	6. Happiness

**I honestly know nothing about flowers and what time of year/location of the world they grow in. (My grandparents were florists, I should so ask them.) If I've got something wrong on that note, don't be surprised. The meanings I mention for them are genuine, though. Thanks for reading so far and please ready, enjoy, and review this chapter as well!**

_June, 1885_

I lie among the geraniums and cry my tears into them. Only they deserve my tears. I know their meaning well and they fit me so. Stupid, prone to folly.

I'm only seven and I've erred quite a few times in my life. No matter what I do, I can't keep the monsters at bay, and it seems that they don't just chase after me at night anymore.

"Felicity!"

It's Mother from somewhere nearby. I scramble farther into the garden, letting the geraniums touch my face with their soft, fragrant petals. An insect crawls along my fingers and I squirm, but the tears will not subside. I can't leave just yet.

"We're to have company over, Felicity. You must come out here at once."

Mother's voice is demanding but I know that she will grow bored and give up and send someone else after me in due time. After a few more shouts of my name, I'm proven right as I hear her sigh and head away from the garden. The sound of a door slamming shut soon follows.

It feels like only minutes go by and my tears eventually subside, but when I pull my head from the geraniums, it's to see that the sun is almost set. I shiver, realizing that the temperature has fallen a bit and I'm frightened of the dark and the things that come with it, but I can't go back inside. I'll be yelled at for sure. There's a tear in my stocking and I surely have petals in my hair and dirt on my cheeks and perhaps a grass stain somewhere on my dress. They'll just have me changed anyway, sent downstairs to dinner to speak when spoken to and be pleasant and delightful and everything a little girl should be but isn't.

"Miss! Miss Felicity!"

It's Franny calling for me now. I'm about to get up and alert her as to where I am. She'll scold me, but I can get around any form of punishment, I'm sure. Then, a delicious thought comes across my mind.

I could hide here all night. Someone would surely miss me then, see some worth in me. Father would surely alert the police, find some friends to go searching for me. When no one was looking, I could sneak away down the road and climb into a ditch, and when they found me, I could claim that I'd been upset with my father and taken a walk and fallen…oh, and everyone would get along so well again, and I could keep the monsters at bay for quite some time.

"Felicity."

I'm surprised to hear a voice so close, and not belonging to Franny. Startled, I look up to see a boy of a few years older than me with coppery brown hair and surprisingly blue eyes. Someone I haven't seen for quite some months.

"Simon!" I squeak. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, looking for you, of course," he says, sitting down across from me among the geraniums and I want to tell him not to because they're stupid, dull flowers. We should head towards the crocus, they're much more cheerful.

But his explanation catches me off guard. Has Father really called the police? Banded people together searching for me?

"We were invited to dinner, you know."

No, of course he hasn't. "Yes," I say, remembering now. "I just…lost track of time."

"And so you went crying among the geraniums?" he asks me, and he sounds as if his voice should be mocking but it isn't.

"I wasn't crying," I croak, digging my fingers into the grass until they penetrate the soil. Simon just shrugs and turns around, as if to walk away. "Wait, where are you going?"

"No where," he says, and he's right. He doesn't stand up. Instead, he crawls away a few paces and then comes back, a flower in his hand.

He hands the flower to me, with its white flowers that look like small, drooping cups. It's a lily of the valley. "Thank you," I say, looking at the flowers. "But why this? What does it mean?"

I don't see his expression as he says it, but he sounds concerned, yet also relaxed. "I think they might have many meanings, but I know that one of them is a return to happiness…from whatever's bothering you."

His words surprise me. I've known Simon nearly all my life and it's always been teasing and joking and not having a care in the world with him. We've played so many games, pretended to be so many things, yet here he is realizing that I have a problem, and actually trying to _console_ me.

He stands up and I'm surprised to find that he's pulled me with him and is gripping my hand. He tugs me along back towards the house, but Franny intercepts us on the way. "Where have you been?" she asks me quite vehemently.

I haven't formulated an excuse yet. I've been too busy planning an escape. "I found her sleeping in the garden," Simon says. "She said she was playing with the flowers and she was very tired and—."

"Is that true?" Franny, for some reason, has decided not to trust Simon and certainly is right to do so, as he is lying. In doing so, though, he's making _me_ trust him.

"Yes," I say, as confidently as possible. "I was playing a game where I was pretending to be a princess, and no one believed I was. They made me sleep on one hundred mattresses and I was going to tell them that I felt the pea beneath them, but…well, I guess I got carried away and fell asleep."

Franny smiles warmly, seemingly forgetting that I'm only imaginative when it comes to making up lies to protect myself from getting in trouble. "Oh, the folly of childhood," she chides, and I can't help but think of the geraniums. "Come on inside, you two. I must have Miss Felicity changed up."

She heads towards the washroom, but Simon doesn't follow, as it isn't his destination. "Thank you," I whisper to him as he lets go of my hand.

Franny is opening the door for me, so I step inside. I turn around to catch a last glimpse of Simon, but he's no longer there. He's already run off, not even polite enough to say you're welcome to me.

_Still_, I think, as Franny helps me undress and instructs me to wash up and complains about having to stitch my stockings and rinse out that terrible grass stain, _the flowers were a nice touch_.

Before we leave the room, I place them in my hair. Franny is about to ruin the moment and remove them, but she pauses just before doing so. "You look lovely, dear."

And with that one small compliment and the gift tucked behind my ear, I realize one thing: I've returned to happiness, if only momentarily.


	7. The Moon

_Autumn 1895_

Felicity has returned home from finishing school for the weekend. She deserves a break, after what she's gone through. I've been fortunate to never lose someone close to me, but at seventeen Felicity has already lost a very special person in her life.

Normally, letters of condolence, small gifts, and flowers are sent when someone loses a loved one. Felicity's not getting any of these things, though. Her friend, Miss Cross, is associated with her family, not Felicity, although I know they were very close.

_Perhaps too close_, I think as I prepare to do a silly thing, but the thought is fleeting. I release the pebble from my hand, aiming it at Felicity's bedroom window. It flies away just as quickly as my thought. A light is shining inside.

Almost immediately Felicity appears in the window, still fully dressed despite the hour, as am I. She doesn't notice me at first, but when she does she sends me a confused glare.

"Come down here," I say in a rather loud whisper, but her window isn't open, so she doesn't hear me. She leaves the window's frame.

I'm about to give up and leave, or perhaps just climb up the side of the house like I did years ago and pry at the window and make my own way into her bedroom, but then I see Felicity stomping across the lawn, running her hands up and down her arms.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses.

"I wanted to offer my condolences," I say, and it's the truth. I stand with my palms exposed, showing that I mean well.

Felicity scoffs. "And you couldn't call on me during daylight?"

I don't say anything, as she's doing that thing she does when she wants to punish me for displeasing her, or just punish me for her own sadistic pleasure. She's crossed her arms firmly over her breasts, and is somehow pouting with her lips parted, and it's very hard to look away from that general region.

She clears her throat. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry," I manage to get out.

"What for?" Felicity spits. "You didn't kill her, did you?"

I freeze. She's staring daggers at me and I stare them right back at her, although mine are much sharper. After a while, she realizes what she's said, and her look softens. Her pout falls into a shocked frown and her arms hang loose at her sides until she raises one to barely touch me on my forearm. "I…I didn't mean that," she croaks.

"Yes, I know," I answer, although I still am not happy with her reaction. I take a step back so that her arm falls useless at her side along with the other one. "It was wrong of me to come now."

"It was," Felicity agrees, and it angers me quite terribly.

"I could have written you a letter."

"Sent me flowers," Felicity muses. "Lily of the valley, of course."

I shake my head. "No. I gave you those so that you returned to yourself. A return to Felicity, not cheer up." I remember that day, and my intent, well. "You're acting like yourself now."

"I'm not," Felicity concludes, but we both know that it's not true. She's in pain, it would seem, but only slightly. She changes the subject. "I'm doing rather well, with the situation, really. I might not be able to see Pippa in this world anymore, but…"

She trails off, bits her lip. For a moment she looks as if she's about to raise her arm to cover her mouth and keep her words in, but the lip biting has had that effect.

"What?" I ask her, confused.

"N-nothing," she stutters. "I simply mean that I can see Pippa every night in my dreams…and perhaps when I myself pass on."

It seems so absurd to me. Felicity never talks about her religious beliefs, or even about her dreams—the ones that she has at night or the hopes for her future. "Do you believe in dreams?" I ask her.

"Yes," Felicity immediately responds, and I feel as if we're speaking in a code I don't quite understand. She doesn't mean what she's talking about and I know it. "I believe in dreams. Dreams where I can do fantastical things. Be strong, hold gems and jeweled insects in my hand, fall in love."

"You can do that all here," I say, completely puzzled.

Felicity shakes her had. "Not quite, I'm afraid."

I'm afraid that she's fainted when she collapses onto the grass, the full moon shining down on her. I see that her eyes are open, though, her breathing steady. Her hair has fallen out and lies above her head, white in the moonlight. The exposed parts of her skin glimmer and her eyes soak up the light, leaving moonbeams dripping off her lashes.

I collapse next to her, and we lay there for quite some time. It's a magical feeling. The stars gaze down at us and the moon seems happy that we are there. I only notice now that Felicity is no longer shivering. I'm surprised when her fingers accidentally brush against mine. They're freezing and she takes my hand which is quite warm.

"What are your dreams like?" she whispers, not looking at me but rather at the moon. I can hardly keep my eyes off of it as well.

"I don't remember all of my dreams," I admit. "Most are about typical things. Some are adventures."

"Do you ever have nightmares?" she murmurs, and for a moment I think we're children again in the Worthington's garden, lying amongst every sort of flower ever known.

I squeeze her hand gently without realizing I'm doing so. "Sometimes," I admit. "Everyone does."

We don't speak for a while, and when I turn to check on her, thinking she might have fallen asleep, corset or not, it's to see that moonbeams actually _are_ dripping from her lashes. Or tears, rather. I don't say a word, even though I have a feeling she's not crying over her lost friend. Even if her friend's death has upset her, it doesn't seem to be her primary concern or the main source of her main.

"It's lovely tonight," she whispers, and I know it's to the moon, not to me. She sits up, pulling me with her. "Sneak upstairs with me," she says, her eyes now open as she addresses me. Her tears have somehow disappeared, and I realize now that they were a very noble thing and that I shall always remember moments when Felicity cried. "I won't make you stay long. It's just that everyone's asleep and I'm just so…and honestly, I need help out of this…"

She trails off and starts to laugh.

"What?" I ask, thinking I know what she's giggling about.

"I can't believe I almost said that," she says with a light giggle. "Actually, I can believe I it, but it wasn't meant in _that_ context…"

"What was it, Felicity?" I shall humor her, nonetheless.

"I was about to say I need help out of this corset," she says with a snigger.

--

Upstairs she undresses slowly. She does not turn around or make me do so. But there's nothing enticing about the act. She's not trying to be seductive or punish me or even reward me, not tonight. Nor is the power in my hand. She's just happy to have the company, it would seem. Perhaps she didn't deserve to visit home for the weekend. Perhaps she should be with her friends, if that's what she really wants.

I help her with the corset and it's a nerve-racking experience, yet mundane in a pleasant way all the same. On any other day I'd want to run my fingers along her back, kiss her shoulder, her lips. And although the general desire is still there, the pull is not as great and I feel that I'm doing what I should be doing. This is right. This is what she needs.

"I hate being this vulnerable," she finally spits when she's shrugged her way into a nightgown. "Especially in front of you, of all people."

I roll my eyes. "Back at it again, are we? It's a good thing I didn't bring you flowers."

Felicity smiles. "It is a good thing," she responds. "But it was right of you to come now."

"I know," I answer, and with that I kiss her cheek, bow with quite a silly flourish, and exit her bedroom on tiptoes, slightly nervous to walk about the rest of her house this way.

But it was right of me to come.


	8. Intentions

**Ahem! Only one review on Chapter 7? If I didn't like this story so much, I wouldn't have updated. Please, if you read, review as well. I really appreciate reviews. It actually annoys me when I see "Story Favorited" in my Inbox and the user hasn't bothered to review. If you like it so much, please at least let me know in a sentence or two. I'd really like that. :)**

**That being said, please read on!**

_December, 1894_

Simon's intentions are clearly written across his face. Although his features have barely changed over these past months, his expression obviously has. Perhaps his jaw line is slightly more defined and maybe he has grown a few inches, but one thing is certain and apparent: He is looking at me in a whole new way, in a whole new light.

There was always that challenging look, that kiss-me-if-you-dare expression, but there's something more now: a want, a longing, a slight hunger, a desire, a passionate, rambling thought. An intention.

The room suddenly feels completely empty except for our unspoken thoughts. The people dancing in the scene behind him, as he approaches, do not exist. _We_ do not exist. The only things present are our intentions.

He extends his arm, placing his hand out to me. Everything returns to view, the unstained, white glove first. "May I have this dance, Miss Worthington?"

I hate when he calls me that.

The intention is still in his eyes. He need not speak of it. I am able to read him that well, or perhaps he's just easy to read. "I rather feel like taking a rest," I say.

His hand does not move. The intention in his eyes remains as well. People are staring now, surprised at my refusal, since we're so well-acquainted. It's a known fact, it would seem.

"She's young," they're probably saying. "She's very tired. It's amazing that she's even been allowed to attend. Ah, but with a mother like hers…"

They've lost interest in me now, too busy contemplating their unfinished sentences and gossiping about ballroom scandals that I'm not involved in. Simon, however, has not walked away. His arm is still extended, gloved hand palm up. The intention has changed now, though. He just doesn't want to be too badly embarrassed, and so he remains, persistent. His first intention might be gone, but now he has a thousand new ones to deal with. Regaining composure and finding out why and planning how to make this all work out, or perhaps planning to never speak to me again.

"But perhaps one more dance won't hurt me." I say it just because he deserves _some_ satisfaction for being so persistent. Although some might view his determination as a flaw, it can be taken as admirable. I take his hand and stand up. We head towards the dance floor, hardly in any sort of order at all. People notice again but lose interest rather quickly as we join the other couples that are dancing.

"Why not?" he asks me immediately, knowing that I've read his intentions as easily as I could read a book. "Why would you refuse me?"

A girl dancing nearby is obviously eavesdropping in the arms of her inattentive dance partner. We both send her devilish glares and she turns away immediately, the exposed nape of her beck turning scarlet. Perhaps I shouldn't refuse him. We make a decent, if not imposing, team after all.

But no. I must stay true to myself. "I just don't want you, Simon," I frankly state. I just don't want someone who calls me Miss Worthington and dances with me in such a pristine manner in public, but then is calling me Fee and feeding off of the passion between us behind closed doors. I don't want anything to do with this veiled, saccharine way of life that he is such a part of. I don't want to force my body into an unnatural, albeit appealing, shape just to cover it in petticoats and frills. "I don't want you or the way of life you represent." It's the best I can say.

Simon is confused. He frowns and pulls me a bit closer. "What do I represent?" he asks, his voice slightly broken. He reminds me of a prince doll I once had. The day I lost its matching Cinderella, it ended up falling off of my shelf and smashing into two. With some strong glue, though, it was fixed again, and only a small sliver remained.

I blink, slowly. It's sad for me to let him go. He isn't a doll, and I'm sure he'll be repaired more easily than one, but at the same time I can't be so sure. Even if I've known him for years, I can not read his mind. Part of me doesn't want to say no. I could be happy with him. I know this. Not able to live the life I want to live, but content nonetheless. There would be parties, balls, and we'd get along well enough, or at least better than most couples do.

I remember his question, but don't want to tell him that he represents all things normal, as he's remained a constant, yet completely fresh addition to my life for years now. "An intention I can't be a part of," I say. The dance ends as soon as it's out of my mouth, and we separate, both speechless. Will there ever be anything left to say?

I offer him my best curtsy and he bows slightly. We walk away at exactly the same time, leaving our intentions behind us, yet carrying those of the others in our hands as we go.

**Oh my! Only two chapters left!**

**Also, if while reading this you thought I'd made a mistake as to their years/ages in earlier chapters--you're right, I did! I've fixed that, however. (It was only in one chapter. Chapter 3 used to take place in March, 1894, but it should really be in March, 1895, which might change the meaning of Chapter 2, being as that takes place in December, 1893, and originally would have happened not too long before Chapter 3. When Simon mentions the refusal, he is in part referring to this chapter. Chapter 2 never had anything to do with it and I'm sorry if I made it seem that way! According to RA, I'm fairly certain Fee claims Simon tried to court her last Christmas, which would have been in 1894, so Chapter 3 would have to be in 1895.)**

**Whew! I'm done, I promise!**

**Please review! Kate**


	9. The Photograph

_July, 1900_

The heat is oppressive. It's impossible to let the air in while keeping the heat out at the same time.

I attempt to, opening the windows in the study as wide as they go and pulling the curtains across. There is no wind to blow them, and even if there was, I'm not sitting nearby enough for it to matter.

I lock the door when I am finished and sit down at the desk that I rarely use. Yet I still know where the picture is. I open the final drawer and rummage through some papers until I find it.

In the photograph, Felicity is leaning over a balcony, smoking a cigarette that she holds in between her index finger and her thumb. Her long white-blonde hair tumbles across her shoulders, which are slightly bared in the shirt that she is wearing. I don't even notice that she's wearing trousers anymore.

I flip it over and read what she's written one more time. Her handwriting is still familiar, even if I can barely remember her voice. It's been almost four years since we last saw one another, after all. Those four years have been pleasant enough for me, yet somehow, from this picture she sent me two years ago exactly, I think that hers might be wonderful, which has always been better than pleasant. I couldn't be happier for her, in all honesty.

I read over the writing one more time, even if I've come to memorize it.

_July, 1898_

_Paris is lovely. I know you wish you were here. I told you I would wear trousers._

_Felicity_

I smirk and roll my eyes. I wonder if she still has the same fiery personality and quiet vulnerability that was only shown behind closed doors or on her front lawn on a clear autumn night. It might be considered pathetic of me to sit here and think of her. One might think that I am mooning or brooding over her. But I'm not. I'm just remembering.

Out of all of the memories we've shared, I think that my favorite was that autumn night. She wasn't happy, but she was open to me. Not only for a few minutes in between arguments, but for a whole set of hours where she openly discussed things with me. The intimacy was beyond anything I've ever shared with anyone, even my own wife.

And so I treasure her photograph and the short inscription on the back of it as our last real conversation. My response to her was short. I originally wrote her a very long letter describing what had happened in my life in the past few years and inquiring after hers, but I eventually decided against it and wrote her one line in its place.

_I knew you would._

**The next chapter will be Felicity's conclusion. Thanks for being such wonderful readers and I hope you enjoy the next chapter! I might do an epilogue if I feel like it, but I highly doubt that right now. That being said, please read and review for this one.**


	10. Goodbye

_December, 1900_

We sit in silence, the wind tickling the backs of our necks. We have not spoken yet and I wonder if we ever will. Everyone else is indoors, enjoying a dinner or a ball or whatever this is. We haven't said a word yet. He does not ask why I've come back after all of these years. I'm sure he knows that it's to see Gemma and Ann for the holidays.

I came outside to avoid the stifling air of the party. When I left London I left such things behind. At this point in my life, I could care less about gossip and dancing and finery. I had hoped to enjoy the cool night's air until Gemma would come looking for me, a worried look on her face. _It's nearly midnight_, she'd say. _Why did you leave?_

But Simon came out here instead. He's been here for nearly ten minutes now, and neither of us has said a word. I don't know if I want this silence to break. For some reason, I hadn't even considered that he might be here. I wanted the photograph of me to be our last conversation. I wanted him to know that I had made it. And now, as we sit on the terrace, our hands in our laps, breathing in the chilly air, I worry that he will think that I didn't make it. I couldn't stand that.

He's the first to speak after the ten minute mark has long passed. "I had hoped that the next time I saw you you'd be in trousers," he says, a smile in his voice.

I look at him and see that indeed he is smiling. "I was going to wear them," I say in a nonchalant manner, as if we had been in conversation for quite some time now, "but I had a gown made in Paris quite some time ago and hadn't worn it yet. I thought today would be a good day to use it."

His eyes meet mine and we stay like that for some time. It dawns on me that it's been four years since we last saw one another. I suddenly feel terrible. I didn't treat him very well that night, did I? "I am sorry," I immediately blurt out.

He doesn't ask what I mean by it. He just nods. "I am sorry, too."

I don't ask him what he means by it, either. By the way he says it and by the sad look in his eyes I know that he means it. I nod. We're past forgiveness now.

We hear chatter from inside. I'm surprised that no one has come looking for at least one of us. It's almost like that night seven years ago on the balcony. I'm waiting for him to rummage through his pockets and pull out a cigarette. But we're not children anymore.

_Do you ever have nightmares?_

_I just couldn't have this everyday. It isn't me._

_A return to happiness…from whatever's bothering you._

_Why did you refuse me?_

The memories are out of order and do not correlate at all. Some of them make me angry at him while others make me smile and want to cry at the same time. I wonder if he's thinking about these things, too.

Suddenly, there's a noise from the doorway. "Felicity? Where are you?"

I stand up from my seat and turn around to see Gemma. She spots to two of us and clears her throat. "Oh, excuse me. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't interrupt anything, Miss Doyle," Simon says, standing up as well. She sends him an awkward glance. I wonder if she's seen much of him since her return to London. They must not converse easily when they meet.

I approach Gemma and touch her shoulder. "I'm here," I say. "I was just getting some air." We go to head inside by I feel a tap on my own shoulder. It's obviously Simon. "You go back inside," I tell Gemma. "I will be there in a minute."

Once she's gone, I turn around to face Simon. "Thank you," he says. Again, I don't know what he's speaking of, but I can only assume he's thanking me for something I've done throughout all of our meetings. Or perhaps for just being there and not asking too much of him, even if he did ask a lot of me.

I nod. You're welcome doesn't seem to fit this moment. My own memories come flooding back once more. The flower, throwing rocks at my window, helping me with my corset, accepting me for who I was. "Thank you as well," I answer, almost sadly.

There is nothing else to say. I am positive now that this is our final conversation. There are no awkward goodbyes like most would have at such a time. Nor are any of the usual themes from our previous conversations revisited. There is no pushing or pulling, no sideways glances. It's over and it's perfect this way.

"Goodbye," I say, turning around and heading indoors. I can feel his gaze on me for some time, and I'm sure that I know when he turns away. I don't notice when he comes back indoors, or when he leaves, or if I leave first.

I've left him with a gossamer kiss, a single word whispered to him after a bittersweet meeting. _Goodbye_.

The rest of our lives are ahead of us and behind us lay many things—broken friendships, innocence lost. But, most importantly, however trivial they were, we shall always remember our ten important conversations.

THE END

**Thanks so much for reading, everyone. Reviews for this chapter (and the story in general) would be much appreciated.**

**I had so much fun writing this and am sad that it's over. I'm really glad that I chose to explore this relationship and I appreciate all the help and lovely reviews I've had along the way. See you later!**

**Kate**


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